Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
Detection
“I concur.”
That’s all he tells me (sometimes he says “kinky is the way for me” but only during the most inopportune moments, so it doesn’t count).
Would you prefer Indian or Thai? - "I concur."
Peanut butter or Chocolate Chip? – "I concur."
Your place or mine? – "I concur. "
The detection of his volatile emotions is key in understanding this man completely, wholly and without a doubt. I use a portable radio with a large, obtrusive antenna to decrypt the true intentions of his stare and the meaning behind his agreeability. Every Sunday I print out a report which extrapolates, through complex mathematical equations, the intricate and often juxtaposed articulations of his brain and at last I can retrieve meaningful answers to my inquiries: Thai. Chocolate Chip. His place.
He doesn’t seem to mind me following him around with the apparatus as long as it doesn’t accidentally pick up signals from the local radio station or disturb his aging cat, who, I’ve come to realize through long hours of research, doesn’t really like the hard-wood floors or the color orange.
Although the truth only exists in the algorithms of the past and I am constantly made to wonder about the present, I am fascinated by the notion of a future guaranteed to be laminated with long hours of solving the calculus that is him. That, and the French radio station I pick up every once in a while. Oh-la-la.
That’s all he tells me (sometimes he says “kinky is the way for me” but only during the most inopportune moments, so it doesn’t count).
Would you prefer Indian or Thai? - "I concur."
Peanut butter or Chocolate Chip? – "I concur."
Your place or mine? – "I concur. "
The detection of his volatile emotions is key in understanding this man completely, wholly and without a doubt. I use a portable radio with a large, obtrusive antenna to decrypt the true intentions of his stare and the meaning behind his agreeability. Every Sunday I print out a report which extrapolates, through complex mathematical equations, the intricate and often juxtaposed articulations of his brain and at last I can retrieve meaningful answers to my inquiries: Thai. Chocolate Chip. His place.
He doesn’t seem to mind me following him around with the apparatus as long as it doesn’t accidentally pick up signals from the local radio station or disturb his aging cat, who, I’ve come to realize through long hours of research, doesn’t really like the hard-wood floors or the color orange.
Although the truth only exists in the algorithms of the past and I am constantly made to wonder about the present, I am fascinated by the notion of a future guaranteed to be laminated with long hours of solving the calculus that is him. That, and the French radio station I pick up every once in a while. Oh-la-la.
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